"The Fish," not properly an "animal poem,"
though its title suggests it, deepens our sense of this "unpreventable
experience," this quality of life that despite the exuberance of living forms and
immortal art, contains our death. It is an immensely powerful and bitter poem. It is full
of a sense of infringement, violation, and injury; it is also resigned. "The Fish /
wade / through black jade." It is not an easy, fishlike movement, but laborious. and
the water is not liquid but stone, not translucent, but dark. One of the morosely-colored
"crow-blue" mussels "keeps adjusting the ash heaps" on which it lies
by opening and shutting itself; it is not a happy animal expression. The shell moves
"like an injured fan." "The barnacles which encrust the side / of the
wave"again the water is seen as an unpleasantly solid substancedo not
have privacy; "the submerged shafts of the / sun . . . move themselves . . . into the
crevices / in and out." It is deliberate, not playful; not an expansive sea,
through which anything can freely move, but a "sea of bodies." (Recall the sea
of "A Grave" into which "men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they
are desecrating a grave.") The water, this evilly forceful and solid mass,
"drives a wedge / of iron through the iron edge of the cliff." This violence is
followed by a chaos where starfish, jellyfish, crabs, and submarine toadstools "slide
each on the other." The sea is full of internal revulsion. What stands out on the
"defiant edifice" of the cliff are "all / external / marks of abuse . . .
ac- / cidentlack / of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and / hatchet strokes."
The side of this chasm is dead. The poem ends:

Repeated
evidence has proved that it can live
on what cannot revive
its
youth. The sea grows old in it.

The accident is lack. The chasm side is permanently mutilated and abused by some
mysterious unpurposeful purposefulness of nature. This strange poem is the work of a
thirty-year-old woman whose rather unnervingly cool sympathies lie with a battered and
violated nature. It is a poem about injury of wholeness, resentful but resigned
deprivation. It contains the prophecy of "foiled explosiveness" that is
suggested by the late poem "Then the Ermine:." The sea, with all its rushings of
individual lives, all its bodies injured and insulted, grows old within its
"dead" walls. How does one make up for such unintentional, natural desecration?

For what it is worth, one can invent a personal myth. One can try and convince oneself
that life is worth efforts of affection and loving observation, that vicarious pleasures
are real, that loss and desecration are only temporary setbacks in a vision that is
essentially whole and infrangible. Myths, like dreams, express wishes, wishes to do away
with limitations. Marianne Moore expresses her wishes with as much directness as she does
her sense of limitation.

In "The Fish," for instance, Moore employs a typically intricate stanzaic
pattern along with evocative, sensual language to create a scene as unfathomable as it
initially seems specific. The first three sentences are clear enough. The fish "wade
through [the] black jade" of a sea where "submerged shafts of the // sun ...
move themselves with spotlight swiftness." Nevertheless, even within those sentences,
Moore has hinted at the broken vision to follow. She describes the movement of one of the
"crow-blue mussel-shells" with curious indirection. The movement of the sand
helps a viewer to infer rather than to observe directly the broken movement of the shells.
We know only that "one keeps / adjusting the ash heaps, / opening and shutting itself
like // an / injured fan." The rest of the poem develops this hint of submerged
movement and emphasizes its potential for violence: "The water drives a wedge / of
iron through the iron edge / of the cliff" and the cliff itself shows "external
/ marks of abuse," both natural and deliberately inflicted. Having developed the
apparent specificity of the poem to this point, Moore dissolves the scene in a flood of
ambiguity. One side of the cliff provides a sheltered pool for sea life. In describing it,
Moore begins a new stanza with a new sentence, a technique which, in her poems, often
foretells dissolution.

All
external
marks of abuse are present on this
defiant edifice-
all the physical features of

ac-
cident--lack
of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and
hatchet strokes, these things stand
out on it; the chasm side is

dead.
Repeated
evidence has proved that it can live
on what it can not revive
its youth. The sea grows old in it.

Contradiction dominates these images. "Lack of cornice," if it means a
natural curve to the edge of the cliff, is certainly a physical feature of accident; but
"dynamite grooves, burns, and / hatchet strokes" are just as surely not
accidental. They are human interventions that "stand out" on the cliff. Thus, it
should not be surprising that "the chasm side is dead." That announcement,
however, makes the next two sentences entirely incomprehensible. If the chasm side is
dead, ravaged as it clearly has been by the force of the water it contains, how does it live
on the barnacles that adhere to its surface, on the shifting mussel shells that may or
may not contain live mussels, and on the rest of the sliding mass of sea life that it
shelters? Finally, why does the sea, clearly the most active and powerful force in this
scene, grow old within this teeming shelter? Moore not only does not answer these
questions, she does not even admit that she has asked them. The poem pretends that it
works visually, whereas it should warn readers that images in poems are not always what
they seem to be.

Moores poem "The Fish," written in 1918, is widely anthologized. It is
also alomost universally admired as a "beautiful" poem. However, at that point,
critics rapidly part company. There are marked differences in interpretation given to this
single poem. Moore made at least three major revisions of the text, and we have access to
her original work notes on the piece from Chatham, so one can be fairly confident that she
had some objective in mind and that she worked diligently toward that objective. Once
again she was trying to be as clear as she could, given her natural reticence. In this
poem particularly, one is reminded of Moore's own words in "Subject, Predicate,
Object": "As for the hobgoblin obscurity, it need never entail compromise. It
should mean that one may fail and start again, never mutilate a suspicious premise. The
object is architecture, not demolition." What follows is the text as she prepared it
for the 1924 edition of her poems called Observations. . . .

The poem does indeed have a haunting, almost eerie beauty. It takes the reader into an
undersea world seldom actually experienced by human beings, at least not in 1918. All the
action occurs in an ethereal, surrealistic kind of slow motion, a movement suggested both
by the undulations of the sea world and by the rhythm of the lines themselves, which
operate in a peculiar and repeated cycloid pattern. There are eight stanzas with syllabic
lines of 1, 3, 8, 1, 6, 8 and an exact rhyme scheme of a a b c c d; the stanzas
themselves are a carefully contrived repetition of waves of sound. But at that point,
anything obvious falls apart, as good critics devise very different explanations of
Moore's intent.

Wallace Stevens was among the first to recognize the poems accomplishments. In a
1935 review of Moore's Selected Poems,he wrote: "In The Fish'
for instance, the lines move waving to and fro under water with the rhythm of sea-fans.
They are lines of exquisite propriety." Sensitive to the scrupulous craftsmanship of
the poem, Stevens also applauds Moore's daring in managing to incorporate what might seem
to be aesthetically inappropriate language (e.g., "external / marks of abuse")
and diverse subjects ("defiant edifice") into a clearly effective representation
of the sounds and sights of the sea. He demonstrates how Moores light rhyme,
predictable rhythms, and visual word placement give pleasure to the reader.

Sue Renick deals with both interpretation and aesthetics when she suggests that the
poems unity comes from a "central consciousness that identifies itself with the
movement of the sea." She reads the poem as representative of the paradox of
destruction and endurance. The movement of the sea has the power to destroy both small
fish and, at the same time, the surprisingly vulnerable cliff. Yet that very movement also
grants survival to both the fish and the cliff. And ironically, the powerful sea grows old
in it; that is to say, the primeval sea actually grows old before the ever-enduring cliff.
She senses in the structures of Moores lines an attempt to capture the throb of the
ocean current and in the rhyme "the organic sound of the sea as it might be heard by
fish."

Donald Hall agrees that the subject of the poem is probably the sea and its power and
potential for injury, but he, like Stevens, prefers to stress aesthetics over meaning,
arguing that the poem exhibits "some of the loveliest images in all poetry." He
admits that he does not "fully understand the poem" and that he finds the last
lines particularly moving, without being able to penetrate them.

Bonnie Costello comments that "The Fish" has been justly admired by critics
for the precision of its images (William Pratt included it in his anthology The Imagist
Poem), for its skillful ordering of sounds and syllables (which Hugh Kenner has
discussed at length), and for its poignant theme of defiance and endurance (which Bernard
Engel elaborates in a close reading). Costello maintains, as Stevens had long before, that
our experience is sensuous long before it is intellectual or moral. She reads the shells
as the fans, the piled up mussels as the ash heaps, and offers the additional insight that
the predictable rhyme and rhythm of the verse offer stability in a world of flux.

Hugh Kenner, always fascinated by Moores poetics, finds the poem "primarily
visible," a poem for the eye, one meticulously arranged on the page. He feels sure
that the poem is "like a mosaic which has no point of beginning." He clearly
understands Moore's fascination with the visual.

Laurence Stapleton argues against complexity in the poem, feeling sure that "The
Fish" cannot be said to be complex in the usual sense of that word, "although it
fuses image and idea with fine disregard for open statement." (She does not, however,
offer to explicate the "uncomplicated stanzas.)

Grace Shulman sees "the sea, the sun, and rock set in opposition to one another,
acting and acted upon as they are watched by an unobtrusive perceiver." The rays of
the sun penetrate the sea and are fractures (i.e., refracted); the fish must wade, they
cannot swim freely; the water "drives a wedge of iron through the iron edge of the
cliff." "Only the rock, scarred though it is by the sea and by the other
elements, does not deteriorate because it can survive on what cannot revivie its
youth."

John Slatin, noticing the publication of "The Fish" beside
"Reinforcements" in Observations, feels sure that "The Fish" is
a war poem prompted by the assignment of Moores brother, Warner, a Navy chaplain, to
the North Atlantic in 1917. Slatin builds a case for a horror poem wherein a
"strange, ominously silent landscape filled with ruins" suggests that "we
are moving in a sea of bodies" and recalling some terrible wartime disaster, or
perhaps a tragedy symbolic of all disasters at sea. There is no cliff at all, but rather
"the iron hull of a ship which looms clifflike above the surface." The
concussion caused by a torpedo has sent the undersea world into a ghastly chaos,

Margaret Holley argues that the poem's power is the water itself, with its colored
delicacies and the verbs of motion, which

... drives a
wedge
of iron through the iron edge
of the cliff.

Holley notes that while "we may allegorize the subject, the poet has refrained
from doing so."

Which turn of the critical kaleidoscope is correct? Is there something valid in each of
them? How can a poem be complex and not complex; meticulously crafted and yet a mosaic
with no point of beginning; primarily about the power of the sea and about the
observations of fish; a war poem and a beautiful portrait of peace; violent and terrifying
and also serene and enobling; a communication about endurance and a portrait of despair;
allegorical and literal? (One is reminded of the famous tale of the blind men and the
elephant. Each has a sensitive hand on a part of the animal and is describing his
perception accurately, but none can report the nature of the whole.)

In her paper on marianne Moore entitlted "The Machinery of Grace," Elizabeth
Bradburn has suggested that too many of Mooores critics feel such satisfaction when
they decode an enigmatic line or two in a poem that they gloss over other lines, even
entire passages, reading them as somehow obvious to the reader when they are not obvious
at all. (I think Schulmans line "Only the rock, scarred though it is by the sea
and by the other elements does not deteriorate because it can survive 'on what cannot
revive its youth'" is in precisely that category. Schulman makes the assumption that
the phrase "on what cannot revive / its youth" is somehow obvious to the reader,
when, in fact, it is not at all. What is it that cannot revive its youth? The sea? Time?
Endurance? Steadfastness? Faith?) Similar assumptions occur in the various interpretations
of "The Fish" presented here. The critics readings are not necessarily
incorrect or bad; they are merely partial.

Margaret Holley offers a useful idea when she suggests that many readers rush too
quickly into allegorical readings of the poem, while Moore herself carefully refrains from
doing so. The critical kaleidoscope must be turned with greater care. It may also be
helpful to know that Moore was a great admirer of T.S. Eliots work as well as his
personal friend; she frequently referred to him as a trout. In "English Literature
since 1914" Moore wrote: "The sheen upon T.S. Eliots poems, the facile
troutlike passage of his mind, through a multiplicity of foreign objects recalls the
Spic torrent in Wallace Stevenss Pecksniffenia. Mr. Eliot does not mar
his subject by overdoing it and he does not bring too heavy a touch to bear upon it. His
nonchalance together with his power of implication make him one of the definite spirits of
our time." (One recalls alos Moores 1916 poem "In This Age of Hard Trying
Nonchalance Is Good." According to Lane's Concordance, Moore used the word
"nonchalance" only once in her poetry, giving some support to the notion that
Eliot's figure as a representative poet remained in Moore's mind.) I do not mean to
suggest that this is a poem about T. S. Eliot, but it is important to remember that the
poem is entitled "The Fish" and that Moore may well be associating the job of
the poet with a "troutlike passage . . . through a multiplicity of . . .
objects." And that is a good way to approach the text. It is essential to keep
Moore's title and her subject, "fish," uppermost in mind as one moves toward
assessing her meaning. Moore associates fish, like elephants and roses, with certain
characteristics of the poet, or for that matter, of any artist.

At face value, the poem is about fish moving through the greenish black (black jade)
sea and along the sea bottom. On the sea floor they find various objects, including a
mussel shell, opening and shutting itself like an injured fan. Nothing in the darkened
undersea world is entirely hidden because shafts of sunlight "split like spun /
glass" move themselves like spotlights down to the ocean floor,

. . . illuminating
the
turquoise sea
of bodies.

The phrase "split like spun / glass" isso similar to "split like
a glass against a wall" in this "precipitate of dazzling impressions" (in
"Novices") as to invite comparison. Many critics have pointed out Moore's use of
the sea as a metaphor for facing innermost terror. In "The Fish," she is doing
precisely that, placing herself--and analogously, her readers--directly into a grave where
both she and they must wrestle with life's deepest fears. Yet on the very edge of terror
one also encounters life's heights, for even the deepest sea is lit by the

sun
split like spun
glass

The light is refracted but still moving "with spotlight swift- / ness." Even
in the depths, the light is always there, illuminating the frightening darkness and making
it appear surprisingly beautiful, comprehensible, and safe. All that is foreign and
alarming--barnacles, crevices, the turquoise sea of bodies, the eerie sea creatures (all
characters from childhood nightmares and even adult dreams)--are clarified and identified
for what they are: merely mussel shells, jellyfish, and crabs. And regardless of what
damage the sea is capable of doing to the earth, it cannot totally destroy the cliff, the
permanence of land. It can wreak terrible--and oddly beautiful--damage to the
civilizations that earth has nurtured, damage identified by lack of cornices, dynamite
grooves, burns, and hatchet strokes. The destruction can be so dreadful that "the
chasm side is / dead." But the cliff--solidity, earth--

. . . can
live
on what cannot revive
its youth.

It does endure. And "fish" can observe that.

Whether the forms at the bottom of the sea are Slatin's human bodies or merely the
multiplicity of objects on the ocean floor, the fish "see" them there in the
muted turquoise gloom. Because the way is lit by rays of sunlight, the fish glimpse
"pink / rice grains" (sea anemones?), jellyfish that are "ink /
bespattered," (suggesting perhaps that they appear to be inked over with shadows, or
more probably that their air bladders are marked by a curious purple inklike dye), crabs
like green lilies, moving eerily in the murky water, and sea toadstools, all giving the
impression of oozing against one another and undulating onto each other in the sea
currents.

Although the water may seem an amorphous and disarmingly innocuous commodity, once one
actually "wades through black jade," one discovers that it is still powerful;;
it drives an iron wedge "through the iron wedge / of the cliff." Through the
power of natural persistence, the apparently formless and harmless water eventually erodes
its way even through the rocks of a cliff, the edifice characterized by its "iron
edge." The cliff has seen and has weathered great adversity, all the external
"marks of abuse" that humans and nature can provide. Yet the great rock
persists; it lives in the sea, that which "cannot revive its youth." The sea can
slowly provide destruction, erosion, but it cannot reverse the process and make the cliff
young and unmarked again. And yet the sea grows old in itwhile at the same
time the rock continues to be battered by the power of the sea. The two are locked in a
mutually nurturing and mutually destructive embrace.

If one keeps the poem "underwater," these are the images one sees. Moore
demands no more. But it is obvious that critics instinctively move toward possible layers
of meaning, and then the kaleidoscope begins its turn. One can use the data of the poem to
argue convincingly, as Renick has, for a statement about the paradox of destruction and
endurance. The movements of the sea--perhaps of human history, or perhaps of time--both
grant life and destroy it at the same instant. As Costello has suggested, the very
structure of the poem, the predictable rhymes and rhythms, themselves marking
"time" in another sense, offer stability in a world of flux. And Schulman's
notion that there is a resistance in all of life against which all must push, fracture,
wade, and drive (the sea against the cliff, the cliff against the sea) contributes further
to understanding the poem's intuition about the importance of struggle. And even Slatin's
mental leap to an undersea world of destruction may work as well. Certainly Moore's own
treatment of the sea in "A Grave" offers mute testimony to the possibility of
his reading (note there "the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave"
and "men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a
grave").

Once again, Moore seems to lead her readers to ambiguity. Like the abstract painter,
she demands that her audience participate in the lines, turning them slowly until meaning
takes shape within the parameters of her images. In the poem entitled "Charity
Overcoming Envy" (1963), Moore addresses her own design, using again the metaphor of
the poet as elephant.

The elephant, at no time borne down by self-pity,
convinces the victim
that Destiny is not devising a plot.

The problem is masteredinsupportably
Tiring when it was impending.
Deliverance accounts for what sounds like an axiom,

The Gordian knot need not be cut.

It is not the poets business to "devise a plot." And as eager as the
reader may be to be delivered by something that "sounds like an axiom," that is
also not the poets concern. What does begin to emerge is a poem that is indeed
beautiful, that does give pleasure; it appeals to the sensual before the intellectual and
the moral. It is a poem that is visual, both as it appears on the page and in the images
it evokes. Its sounds and rhythms capture the life force of the sea. Through the poet's
power to strike "piercing glances into the life of things," one is offered some
momentary insight into the fragile tension of life, caught always between endurance and
destruction, but life which is real and precious nonetheless. The poet's power to swim
with "troutlike passage . . . through a multiplicity of . . . objects" offers an
illumination of propriety, accuracy, beauty, and insight into the fragile tension and
rhythms of existence.

All
external
marks of abuse are present on this
defiant edifice
all the physical features of

ac-
cidentlack
of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and
hatchet strokes, these things stand
out on it; the chasm-side is

dead.
Repeated
evidence has proved that it can live
on what can not revive
its youth.

("The Fish" 32-33)

Two things about this passage (aside from its great beauty) are significant: first, the
reader is deprived of any reference indicating that the phenomenon described so vividly
and concretely is an animal, much less a fish. The virtuosity of Moore's observation
decomposes the intuitive coherence of objects. Second, like Schrodinger's catthough
much more explicitlythe "defiant edifice," whose mesmerizing facade defies
the reader's comprehension, swims in the element of adversity, thereby betraying a world
of mortal danger: the animal is, to be more precise, a picture of "accident" and
"abuse"a ruin. Indeed, half of it is gone ("the chasm-side is
dead"), though "it can live" on other living things. Again, like
Schrodinger's cat, the creature in this traumatic (though somehow neutral) milieu is both
dead and alive, "mixed or smeared out in equal parts."

Despite the wealth of visual and sensory evidence, Moore's poem does not represent a
fish-object; instead, it depicts a "blurred reality," or complementary aspects
of it, that resist integration into a coherent or determinate picture of physical reality.
The ruined creature of Moore's virtuosity is poised between the visible and the invisible,
a picture of ephemerality; yet it is also a cipher, a corporeal anagram combining social,
imaginative, and material realities. In all of Moore's fables, however, the animal-cipher
is born from the meticulous observations of the naturalist. . . .

“The Fish” refuses to be caught. This poem seems, on some fundamental level, irreducible to any one interpretation, “high-sounding” or otherwise. It functions as an embodiment of the poetic that cannot be collapsed into the conceptual, the philosophical, the arguable. “The Fish,” as such, functions as an exemplary poetic utterance. Attempts to reduce this utterance to the easily comprehensible always produce some remainder, always admit some error that allows “The Fish” to swim away with the bait.

Formally, as many critics have noticed, Moore’s “Fish” is very striking. The poem is composed of eight stanzas, each of which (1) has five lines, and (2) follows the rhyme scheme a a b b c and (3) the syllable count 1, 3, 9, 6, 8. This triple-mark of order is not immediately apparent; the reader’s first glance at the text suggests the disorder of lines at radically different lengths and pervasive enjambment. However, while reading, the sense of the pattern nonetheless gradually suggests itself – an experience that, as many critics, beginning with Wallace Stevens, have noticed, mimics the sensible apprehension of waves on the sea. Each stanza, like a wave, builds (in the first two lines) and breaks (in the second two), giving way for the one that follows (and repeats the same cycle). In this way, we get a poetry in which the structure of the lines, their inherent rhythm, lines up their descriptive content perfectly. The force of this utterance, under this kind of reading, derives from the special conjunction between the poem’s formal structure and the substance of its descriptions.

Although this reading of the poem does account for a measure of the poem’s power, and is important to understanding how the poem works (read, in the terms of “Poetry”: makes itself useful), “The Fish” cannot simply be reduced to this gloss. The attempt to apply this interpretive scheme to the poem inevitably produces some significant remainder, some inassimilable poetic material. For instance, the c is a recurrent remainder: if the stanza derives its structure from the wave, building (a a) and breaking (b b), the presence of the last line (c) is systematically ignored, discarded, thrown back. If the wave-like rhythm of “The Fish” marks its poetry, then the c is excluded from this poeticism. The c, of course, is a homophone for “the sea” – the very name of the image the c is being excluded from. The site of exclusion, of the remainder, then, covertly names that from which it is barred, and hence names this act of exclusion as such. The formalist reading of the poem also has no place for the title, which (as in William Carlos Williams’ “The Yachts”) is made to function as a semantic unit within this poem: “The Fish” “wade / through black jade,” (1-2). The title, then, also is a manifest remainder, an element of the poem reduced or excluded in the act of explaining the poem.

Another provocative reading of “The Fish” finds it to be “a poem about injury of wholeness, resentful but resigned deprivation,” a poem saturated with “a sense of infringement, violation, and injury,” (Hadas, MAPS). This reading embraces the poem as “the work of a thirty year old woman whose rather unnervingly cool sympathies lie with a battered and violated nature.” However, this pessimistic reading also produces a significant remainder. The critic propels herself into pessimism by reading the image of “the / turquoise sea / of bodies” (16-18) as a phantasmal image of the water an overfull grave (also as in Williams’ “The Yachts”), so that the sea is “not deliberate, not playful; not an expansive sea…” This reading captures some of the power of this image, but at the expensive of its true richness. The “sea / of bodies” seems not only to be an image of death, but also an image of flourishing, thriving, healthy life – an image supported by the emphasis on light and the play of illumination in the preceding lines:

The barnacles which encrust the side
of the wave, cannot hide
there for the submerged shafts of the
sun,
split like spun
glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness
into the crevices –
in and out, illuminating
the
turquoise sea
of bodies. … 8-18

The “sea / of bodies” is not only a collection of physical remnants forsaken by death, but also a profusion of living, moving, embodied creatures. And so, once again, the poetic language of “The Fish” is compromised, reduced, exploited, by explanation.

This, of course, is not to say that no attempt at explanation should be made. It is more to say that many attempts should be made, that no one attempt to render - in conceptual, philosophical, arguable, language - the power of the poem can function perfectly, can avoid leaving behind some significant remainder, can avoid performing some uneasy motion by which “The Fish” manages to slip away.